Carpe Diem
by sunshine and lollipops
Summary: A Titanic story concerning J. Bruce Ismay's younger sister, Mary Catherine, a woman with failing sight and ties to Thomas Andrews.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer/Author's Note: Any and all non-historical characters from James Cameron's film that appear in this fan fiction have been shamelessly borrowed. The personality traits exhibited by J. Bruce Ismay, Thomas Andrews, Molly Brown, etc. are likewise in the spirit of the movie. Mary Catherine Ismay is a character of my own creation. Thus, historical accuracy is obviously not something to be found here.**

**Carpe Diem**

I had such a headache, and the light from the starboard side windows wasn't helping. I almost asked the young man across from me (Mr. Hockley, was it?) if he'd mind exchanging seats, but I restrained myself, was subdued for much of lunch. But when my brother started taking about the goddamn ship again, I couldn't help but bring my hand up to my left temple to vainly try and stop the throbbing. Thomas Andrews, seated on my right, noticed, leaned toward me.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly, and I answered that I was fine, taking my hand away from my temple immediately, adjusting my small dark-colored glasses, forcing a smile to assure him that I was. The Irishman looked at me skeptically but said nothing more.

"She is the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history and our master shipbuilder, Mr. Andrews here, designed her from the keel plates up," my brother continued from the opposite end of the table. Thomas Andrews looked up at his name but disliked the attention that Bruce had just cast upon him.

"Well," he looked down, muttered. "I may have knocked her together, but the idea was Mr. Ismay's. He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in its appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is…," he hit the table lightly with the palm of his hand, "willed into reality."

"Financed into reality," I corrected under my breath.

"Why're ships always bein' called "she"? Is it because men think half the women around have big sterns and should be weighted in tonnage?" Molly Brown commented, eliciting hearty laughs from Mr. Hockley and the girl beside him. Oh God, I couldn't think of her name either. I was approaching senility and I had yet to turn thirty. The thought depressed me and I forgot to respond to the joke though Thomas Andrews smiled and both Mrs. Bukater and my brother laughed appropriately, placating the woman as she continued, "Just another example of men settin' the rules their way." I spoke then, compelled by a passing impulse and my inherent distaste for Molly Brown's very American worldview.

"To a sailor, more so than a shipbuilder"—I met the gaze of Thomas Andrews evenly—"or a shipowner"—my eyes broke their tryst with Thomas Andrews slowly and I looked at my brother over the rims of my dark glasses—"his ship is the only thing he has in a wide, unforgiving, icy sea, that beats him down and rips his face and hands apart with salt and water. The ship protects him, gives him strength." I was speaking up for the first time today, and all eyes were turned toward me, captivated by my tone. "The sea is a cruel mistress. Very fickle, Molly Brown. A sailor's ship is his sister, his mother, his wife. She is faithful through storm and tide. It's a compliment that woman's name should be as highly prized."

I sighed and regretted speaking so frankly as soon as I had finished. Mr. Hockley and his lady seemed to consent, Thomas Andrews looked at me thoughtfully, I could not see Molly Brown's expression, nor Mrs. Bukater's because I was anticipating my brother's sneer and turned towards it.

"What _are_ you going on about, Mary Catherine?" he said without requiring a response. His dismissal of me was neither surprising nor unprecedented, and the expression on my face remained passive. Twenty-nine years of being Bruce Ismay's sister would turn even the most lively and happy soul sour. The waiter arrived to take orders and Kate?...that young girl across the table lit a cigarette. Mrs. Bukater looked over at her daughter.

"You know I don't like that, Rose."

Rose! Yes, that was it. Like a flower, a red, red rose, like her red, red lips, overdone with lipstick. No, I won't forget this time. Mr. Hockley responded with, "She knows," and then took the cigarette from Rose's fingers, put it out. Then he ordered for both of them, asking her approval with some patronizing remark that I only half listened to.

"So, you gonna cut her meat for her too there, Cal?" That woman's voice mixed with clattering silverware and the low hum of conversation in just such a way that I couldn't stand it. I clenched and unclenched my fist under the table. Molly Brown turned to my brother, changed subjects dramatically. "Hey, who came up with the name Titanic? You, Bruce?"

"Yes, actually," he answered briskly. What he meant to say was _Yes, of course, you American half-wit, daughter of nobody knows who, I own the ship don't I?_ but my brother is too genteel for honesty. "I wanted to convey sheer size. And size means stability, luxury…and safety."

"Do you know of Dr. Freud?" Rose spoke up, lifted her chin with a perturbed look on her face. Where was she going with this? She continued addressing Bruce, "His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you, Mr. Ismay."

Beside me, Thomas Andrews almost choked on a breadstick as he suppressed laughter. I tipped my head slightly, I had underestimated the little American girl. Her mother was absolutely mortified saying, "My God, Rose, what's gotten into—"

But Rose had already thrown her napkin on the table, and the men half rose in their seats as she got up.

"Excuse me," she said shortly and stalked off. I watched her escape with mild envy as Mrs. Bukater apologized for her daughter.

"She's a pistol, Cal. You sure you can handle her?" Molly Brown mentioned from down the table. Mr. Hockley seemed tense but shook it off, feigned unconcern.

"Well, I may have to start minding what she reads from now on," he answered.

"Who is this Dr. Freud?" Bruce asked, still looking after Rose, not sure if she insulted him or not. Thomas Andrews was about to answer him but I placed my hand on his arm lightly, restraining him, and spoke up first.

"He's German, Bruce." This elicited the snort and subsequent rant about Germans generally, their inability to think outside tradition, their useless practicality, etc. His generalizations made him forget Dr. Freud and dominate the conversation with a topic he could ramble passionately about. I made my own excuses ten minutes after Rose had left and retreated to the shaded part of the decks for the rest of the afternoon.


	2. Chapter 2

Thomas Andrews found me in early evening, under an umbrella on Deck A, facing northeast, away from the sun. There were stars peeking out from the dark blue horizon, the air was chilly, I was wearing a heavy wool, loose weave shawl. I had removed the hat, unpinned my hair because I hadn't seen anyone in hours. If Thomas Andrews noticed, he said nothing, felt inclined to comment on the glasses instead.

"I've never seen you wear glasses past three in the afternoon," he stated bluntly. Not even a hello, how are you? He saved abrasiveness for me, it would seem.

"My eyesight has grown considerably worse in the last two years," I answered softly, without bitterness. It was fact, after all. Can't change these things. Oh dear, did I mean that? Or was I engaging in suppression again?

"Ismay never mentioned it," he commented.

"I doubt Bruce notices a change." I sighed. We were silent for a moment, what could he say? I'm sorry that your brother is an arrogant son of a bitch who refused to believe his teenage sister might have glaucoma, a disease of the "common people." The common rabble he locked away in the farthest corner of his great ship, out of sight, out of mind. For six years, I worked by low lamplight, straining in darkness to put his corporate books together, read over plans he couldn't understand, answered his letters, managed his money. Even when I did defy him and start treating my eyes, he refused to entertain the thought that there might be something wrong. The small dark glasses I wore offended him. He told me to take them off, never wear them, I refused and he has spent the following twelve or so years pretending nothing is wrong. He hadn't once asked about my eyes in the entire time. But Thomas Andrews knows this, he knows J. Bruce Ismay as well as anyone. He leaned back against the deck railing, saying nothing. I adjusted my skirt, then repositioned my shawl around my shoulders.

"This will be my first time in America, did you know that?" I asked, because I didn't wish to ask about his wife, and I no longer wanted to talk about my sight. He seemed genuinely surprised.

"You are in earnest?" He replied. I nodded.

"Not once?" he mused.

"Not ever," I assured him. I wish Julia had accompanied Bruce as she should have (dutiful wife and all that) and that the pleasure had been indefinitely postponed. But I did not say this. Thomas Andrews knew that I was impossibly backward thinking, I suppose, enjoyed the Old World too much. If he didn't, I misjudged his talents of understanding.

"Mary Catherine…," he sighed, my name falling off his tongue almost unconsciously. I met his gaze, smiled sadly. Tipped my head, wondered briefly if he remembered the last time we spoke like this, in quiet, contented tones about nothing at all, on a balcony in London, two years before. He might have said more, but a crewman came by, struggling with the leashes of three small dogs.

"Oh, he means nothin' by it, sir," the boy said when one of the dogs, the ugly, pugnacious one, stopped in front of Thomas and began growling incessantly. Thomas bent down, tried to make friends with the creature but brought his hand back fast when the ungrateful thing reached for it with its teeth. I laughed.

"What's that saying, Mr. Andrews? A dog knows a good soul when he sees one…," I teased, implying the converse. The boy started saying that was rubbish, and Mr. Andrews was the finest man he ever had the pleasure of meeting, and on and on with flattery of a predictable nature. Thomas Andrews was universally well-liked. Had always been so. Had always been embarrassed by praise as well and held his hand up to stop the boy from continuing his verbal tokens of admiration.

"Mary Catherine likes to find fault with me." A small smile graced his features as his gaze drifted toward me. I sensed a sudden joviality in his manner, and was glad for it. "Just a young's girl game, don't upset yourself by it."

"Young?" I demanded, though not angrily. Laughed lightly again and removed the glasses. I met his gaze directly, plaintively and repeated, "Young, Mr. Andrews?"

"Well, you certainly aren't old, my dear."

"Not old, he says? When I'm almost blind and can't remember a person's name even mere minutes after we've been introduced?"

"You've never been good with names…"

"I've been better than this," I insisted. "Today at lunch, I was unable to recall Mrs. Bukater's daughter's name until it was spoken, and that boy she's with…well, I think it's Mr. Hockley. But I'm not sure…"

"Calvin Hockley, yes, you've got it right."

"Anyway, I'll be thirty years old this summer. Surely, you can give me credit for that?"

"I don't think so," Thomas Andrews smiled once more. "You forget, Mary Catherine, that I'm ten years your senior. I haven't been thirty for quite some time."

The lightness of his tone suddenly dissipated. Unwittingly, the reference brought memories into the conversation that overwhelmed any present concerns. I neglected to answer, and we slipped into silence.

On my twentieth birthday, this same Irish shipbuilder from Harland and Wolff bought me a silver crucifix in Belfast. It hung around my neck still, beneath the lace collar on my French day dress. Ever present.

Looking between myself and Thomas Andrews, perhaps wondering at the sudden change in our respective demeanors, or perhaps not giving the matter any thought at all, the crewman moved on, pulled along by the three well-groomed, ill-tempered dogs.

Thomas remained at the railing, not looking at me but elsewhere, out across the water, back towards England. I set the glasses aside, brought the shawl tighter around my shoulders. We remained this way, unspeaking, for much of the evening.


	3. Chapter 3

My brother had misplaced his accounting of the firm, again. Once we arrived in New York, after the parade of newscasters and city patrons, all clamoring for the attention of J. Bruce Ismay, owner of the White Star Line, veritable father of the already legendary ship that just entered their harbor…after all of that, maybe he'd remember the more practical reason he was in New York and ask me where the accounting was. I removed two boxes from the upper reaches of the closet in his state room. They were filled with papers, but not the ones I wanted. Hmmm…if I were an accounting, where would I be? I searched in the nightstand by the bed and briefly through his other luggage. Nothing.

I momentarily considered returning to my own room. Had _I_ misplaced it? Was it sitting in my nightstand, or lying on the upper reaches of my own hall closet. No, I'd already checked there, twice. Bruce has it, he must have it, I concluded silently. I locked his state room behind me and walked up to the reception area.

At midday, the room was over crowded, waiters were moving fast and with purpose. First class passengers on the greatest ship in the world were not to be kept waiting. I spotted Bruce after scanning the room briefly. He sat on the far side with Captain Smith.

"Mary, honey, is that you?" Molly Brown's loud voice was unmistakable. I turned slowly and found her crossing the distance between us. "Thought so. Can't mistake you with those glasses. We missed ya at dinner last night." Her words held some measure of concern.

"I went to bed early, my eyes were bothering," I answered, cordially. The woman meant well, and I certainly couldn't hold her rough manners against her. She was, of course, no English schoolgirl, and never had been. But what of it? I couldn't expect her to emulate principles of gentility that she'd never learned in the first place.

"Tom told us as much, said you sent your regrets or something like that. Very proper and all," Molly Brown winked at me and I gave a patient smile in return. Thomas Andrews had perjured himself…I sent no regrets, nothing of the kind. I told him to make excuses for me, but nothing beyond that.

"You and Tom got a history, Mary-girl?" Her familiar tone half teased, half inquired. She was prying, without reserve. Probably didn't care if she received any answer either. The blunt honesty of Molly Brown was something I'd rarely encountered in men, never in women. To say what one thinks has always been strange to me, accustomed as I have been to pretense or silence where things of a more delicate nature are concerned. I almost answered her as bluntly, almost said, _Not really any of your business is it, Molly Brown?_ I restrained myself.

"My brother has requested many ships, Molly Brown. Mr. Andrews has built a number of them," I answered simply, then added not quite of my own volition, "I suggested that we name this one after his wife."

"His…wife? Bruce's wife, you mean?" she was stunned, thought she had the situation completely figured out. I shook my head.

"No, Tom's wife." I smiled ironically, spoke familiarly, and then stated firmly, "If you'll excuse me, Molly Brown?" The smile died on my lips as I brushed past her, walking towards Bruce and Captain Smith. I reached them as my brother asked the captain about lighting more boilers.

"…the press knows the size of the Titanic, led them marvel at her speed too." Bruce held his wine glass out to a waiter, who had appeared near me seemingly out of thin air, with a bottle of Cabernet in his hands. "We must give them something to print. The maiden voyage of the Titanic must make headlines." The waiter poured half a glass as Bruce stressed his vision. I rolled my eyes but beneath the glasses, I doubt either he or the captain noticed.

"Mary Catherine, dear, you're looking better than yesterday." Bruce was gallant in his greeting, in a good mood, I suppose, contemplating the fame and glory of his ship's New York debut. The captain nodded his head toward me, said simply, "Miss Ismay."

"Captain," I answered in kind, turned to Bruce. "I am better, thank you…have you any idea where the accounting is?"

"Dear God, Mary Catherine, do you never just enjoy the sights? Take a walk on the promenade? Drink tea with the other girls?" Bruce waved a hand toward Mrs. Bukater and the Countess of Rothes, doing just that a few tables over. Molly Brown had approached them, I noticed. Bruce turned to Captain Smith, as if in confidence, and said, "My sister, sir, is the very image of Old World practicality. Very little vision in this one." I bit my lip, to stop myself from responding too rashly. Captain Smith seemed uncomfortable with Bruce's words but likewise said nothing.

"Yes, well, I would like to check the numbers before we present it to the partners in New York," I replied. "Can't be too careful pleasing your financers." Bruce laughed and said something about how a serious tone ruined my features almost as much as those hideous glasses. Again, Captain Smith seemed uncomfortable at his words.

"It's in one of the boxes in the closet," he finally answered my question. I told him that I'd checked there.

"Then check again," he commented. "You must have missed it."

"I didn't miss it."

"Well, you must have," he said again, this time angrily, the placid smile on his face replaced by an irritated scowl. I did not cower before his tone, but I did not intend to make a scene either. There was no reason to and no good would come of it. The captain said nothing, a quiet man who knew better than to interfere in family affairs. I paused briefly, then spoke decidedly.

"I must have." I paused once more. "I'll look again."

"Good enough." Bruce straightened up, not looking at me, took a drink of wine. I sighed and left them to their lunch, Bruce's talk of boilers and the fastest transatlantic voyage ever performed, Captain Smith's meager attempts to reign in my brother's excitement.

I looked in the boxes, I looked twice. I searched my own room once more and then the boxes, for a fourth time. I never did find the accounting. At the time, I was frustrated by this. In hindsight, I suppose, it was a silly thing to be frustrated by.


	4. Chapter 4

I was tempted to skip dinner. When the bell rang, I was on Deck B's promenade deck, wandering. The sunset was brilliant tonight, the air chilly but not frigid. The breeze was mild and caught those strands of my hair that were escaping their pins, twisting them back from my face. As I passed the railing, I let my hand follow it, felt the smooth, glassy feel of wood unweathered and, in other places, of cold steel as yet unrusted. Fiddle music came from the second class deck and a deep baritone, Irish voice sang a sad song about leaving home and a woman named Brigit O'Malley. I followed the voice, my footsteps soft against the planking. I didn't climb to the second class deck but remained at the bottom of the stairs, sitting on the first step. I would not have been able to see the singer clearly anyway, my vision obscured by darkness and blurred edges. And the sight of a woman in imported silk, moderate lace, well-polished, black laced boots, and small dark glasses might affect those gathered to listen in an undesirable manner.

_Oh Brigit O'Malley, you left my heart shaken_

_With a hopeless desolation, I'd have you to know_

_It's the wonders of admiration your quiet face has taken_

_And your beauty will haunt me wherever I go._

With my eyes closed, the pressure against them subsided. I let the sweet sound wash over me until, called away to his own meal, the voice faded off. I sighed, rose from the steps and walked back to first class. I removed the glasses on my way, rubbed my eyes.

"Good evening, Miss Ismay," the steward at the door greeted me with a smile as he opened the door. A sharply dressed young man arrived directly behind me and the steward greeted him similarly. Turning slightly, I watched the young man acknowledge the steward with a dismissive nod. I met the gaze of the young man, without recognition. He seemed out of place somehow, not nervous perhaps, not even apprehensive, but out of place certainly, almost as if he'd never been in this room before. I was staring now, and he noticed. He didn't respond with more than a lopsided grin. I tipped my head.

"I hope you don't take offense, sir…" I spoke in a quiet voice, kindly, "…but you seem a little lost." He leaned towards me.

"That's 'cause I am." He continued grinning. Another happy American, inclined to be honest. I shook my head, smiling back. I couldn't help it, his easy manner was infectious. "Could you perhaps point me in the direction of the Bukatars?"

"Ruth and…her daughter?" Damn. I'd forgotten the girl's name again. How? It was not that difficult. _Honestly, Mary Catherine…_

"Yes, ma'am," he stated. "I'm supposed to have dinner with them."

"You are?" I asked, amused. He nodded. "Well, then…I suggest you continue this way until you get to the staircase and then…" He listened to me eagerly. "…and then I'd suggest you go…up the staircase."

"As opposed to down?" he answered my patronizing manner good naturedly.

"Oh, exactly right," I smiled once more and left him to find his own way. I had no doubt the happy American would have no trouble.

I smelled spice as I ascended the staircase and European perfume, floral scents, every now and then the odor of musk. As my sight dimmed, my other senses had become more acute. But I only noticed a difference at times such as this, when the other senses were drenched by the sheer grandness of the circumstances before them. The change had been too gradual to notice in everyday comings and goings. The band played Strauss tonight. The light from the overhead chandelier was dim enough that I kept the glasses off. Bruce would be happy.

When I entered the reception room, Madeline Astor made her way over to me immediately. We had met some months before, at a party in London. I knew she was traveling with her husband to New York, but this was the first time I'd seen her during the voyage.

"Oh, Miss Ismay!" she exclaimed, still much like a young girl. And so she was, all of nineteen according to the women who know these things. She kissed my cheek, and I returned her embrace.

"I've told you to call me Mary Catherine, Mrs. Astor," I chided. She responded likewise and we laughed briefly, as if old friends sharing an old joke. All told, Madeline was the richest woman aboard the greatest ship in the world. Because of her youth, she also had a sweetness, untainted by years of society life. I did not like how the other women talked behind closed doors and in private circles, of how she was too young to be John Astor's wife, too young to make him a father, how her family was new money, how her manner was too…enthusiastic. She was young, vigorous and full of life. How could she help but be so?

"I've been waiting for you to come down," she said plainly. "I was afraid we'd get to New York without having seen each other. You haven't been on the decks much at all, have you?" I shook my head.

"No, sunlight has been bothering my eyes more than usual," I answered. I didn't mention that frequenting the decks meant conversing with the likes of Molly Brown, the Countess of Rothes and a handful of others I'd rather see once every few years, and then only distantly.

"Well, you're here now and that's all that matters," she smiled happily, observed me with unchecked affection. This is how Madeline got into trouble, letting her feelings show too obviously in a world full of pretense. In a world full of public displays and private confidences, secrets and grasping, manipulating men and women. A place where Ruth Bukatar indulged Molly Brown while slandering her privately, where the Countess placated Madeline while whispering that the young girl had married only for money. I worried about Madeline's lack of reserve, but more than that, I envied it.


	5. Chapter 5

The young man that I had seen on the boat deck, at the entryway, found his way after all. He was introduced at our table as Jack Dawson, the boy who had saved Rose (Rose! This time I swear I'll remember) Bukater from certain death. I had not been informed of her near fall off the ship's stern, nor could I imagine how such a thing transpired. However, by all accounts, the sharply dressed American was a hero, and he was pleasant enough that I didn't doubt it. I sat beside Thomas Andrews at dinner, as I always did. He had looked up from his black book when Madeline and I entered the dining salon. The quick lift of his head brought his eyes level with mine as we approached. He did not smile, his expression remained passive, but his gaze held mine firmly, too long to speak in apathy. He rose at our presence, as did my brother and Colonel Gracie, seated further down the table.

"Mary Catherine," he greeted, then dragged his gaze off my face, finally offering a smile to someone, "Mrs. Astor, how are you?"

"Oh quite well, thank you, Mr. Andrews," she answered and took the seat across and to the right of Thomas Andrews. I walked around and took the seat beside him. Her husband joined us, greeting the men with hearty handshakes all around. Mr. Guggenheim and Madame Aubert followed close behind. Mrs. Bukater entered with Molly Brown, her daughter, Mr. Hockley and Jack Dawson. Mr. Dawson was the only new face and introductions were brief. He sat across from Rose Bukater, who was flanked by Thomas Andrews on her right and Mr. Hockley on her left. Molly Brown sat down next to me, silently, frowning, without her usual boisterous greeting. Unnerved, I tried to account for her changed disposition and then remembered that the woman had been in the company of high society all day. Had they had broken her spirit? Uncharacteristically, I hoped not. I suddenly regretted my prior, highly uncharitable thoughts towards Molly Brown.

"You are well, I trust, Mrs. Brown?" I asked. She looked up at my words, surprised, but then a smile softened her features.

"Why sure, Mary…yourself?" she replied.

"Very well, thank you." I answered.

Dinner was a superficial affair, at times indulgent, at others fairly tacit. Jack Dawson was apparently a free spirit, live-by-his-luck, financially deficient vagrant. My previous inclination, that he was out of place, was obviously understated. Mr. Guggenheim and his mistress spoke in low, conspiratorial tones at the other end of the table. Bruce and Colonel Gracie laughed near them, Rose graciously complimented Thomas Andrews on his ship, and he thanked her with modesty. The salad was served, and the elder Mrs. Bukater not-so-innocently asked Mr. Dawson where he was from.

"Well, right now my address is the RMS Titanic…," he answered, without apology, without shame. "After that, I'm on God's good humor." Not surprisingly, Mrs. Bukater was unimpressed.

"You find that sort of rootless existence appealing, do you?"

Molly Brown gave the woman a long look that I couldn't mimic if I tried. I looked down quickly, hiding the smirk that threatened to steal over my lips.

"Well…," Jack began slowly, no fool to what Ruth DeWitt Bukater was attempting to do. He thought about his answer before he said it, and sounded wise beyond his years because of it. "…yes ma'am, I do. I mean, I've got everything I need right here with me…I got the air in my lungs and I got a few blank sheets of paper." The waiter brought bread, Jack took a roll, started chewing on it as he continued. He had caught the attention of the whole table. "I love waking up and not knowing what's gonna happen, who I'm gonna meet, where I'm gonna end up…just a few nights ago, I was sleepin' under a bridge and now I'm here, on the greatest ship in the world havin' champagne with you fine folks." He raised his glass with a grin. Laughter followed, and Colonel Gracie may have added a "here, here" as he always does. I glanced to my right, Thomas was lost in his thoughts, salad forgotten.

"I figure life's a gift and I don't intend on wasting it," Mr. Dawson spoke with uncommon conviction. "You never know what hand you're gonna get dealt next. Here you go, Cal—" he threw a lighter to Mr. Hockley, or something of a similar shape and size. Cal caught it roughly, unprepared as he was. Jack Dawson returned to his audience, "…got to make each day count."

"Well said, Jack," Molly Brown muttered. Colonel Gracie chimed in with another "here, here."

"_Carpe diem_," I breathed the words, hadn't meant to speak aloud. I broke Thomas Andrews out of his reverie, he glanced at me sharply. Jack Dawson met my gaze evenly, nodding his head.

"Seize the day, yes ma'am," he answered.

"To making it count." Rose proposed a toast and the entire table answered. I raised my glass while turning slightly to my right, meeting the Irishman's scrutiny with a shrug of my shoulders, a slight shake of my head. I admit, it was an odd comment for me to make, and Thomas Andrews knew this. Wondered at it. Asked me, by his expression, what I meant by it. But honestly, I had no explanation for him.

Later that night, Jack Dawson's words crept into my head as I brushed my long hair before the vanity mirror in my stateroom. The candlelit likeness staring back at me held the ends of her hair between two fingers, twisted them slowly. Seize the day? Oh, but what if your day has come, and you missed it? What if your day stood before you in brilliant sunlight and warm Irish breezes, and you hid from it? Locked yourself away in a prison for fear of accepting it? _Life's a gift and I don't intend on wasting it_...

"Oh, you've wasted it, Mary Catherine," the image in the mirror muttered back at me. I set the brush aside, covered my face with my hands, though no tears stung at my eyes. I was too exhausted to cry, haven't wept in half a dozen years anyway…can't remember what it feels like.


	6. Chapter 6

I dreamed I had a headache and woke to four or five firm raps on the door of my state room. I ignored the sound, buried my face deeper into the pillows of the bed, away from the light spilling through both windows. I had neglected to close the dark wine colored curtains last night; I cursed myself for lack of foresight. The weather had been consistently fair this entire trip. Calm seas, brilliant sunlight. Again, I should have stayed in England, where heavy fog and spring rain showers hide such things from my sight. The knocking persisted.

"Miss Ismay?" came a woman's voice, small and hesitant, unsure. She called again, "Miss Ismay?" I reached blindly toward the nightstand for my glasses, found them after knocking a silver bracelet and the bedside electric lamp to the floor. The lamp didn't break, but produced enough noise that the person calling my name asked if I was alright.

"Fine," I answered, putting on the glasses, blinking twice against even shadowed light, pressing the fingers of my right hand against the sides of my head briefly. For half a minute more I lay there, then rose, grabbing the shawl lying on a nearby chair, throwing it around my shoulders, over my nightgown as I walked to the door and opened it. A little blond stewardess in a well-ironed uniform stood ready to knock once again.

"What is it?" I asked, my voice reflecting drowsiness and not a little irritation. The girl looked frightened, whether of me or something else entirely I couldn't be sure. After all, I had been sleeping a mere two minutes before.

"My apologies, Miss Ismay, but your brother said I should wake you. Said the day is upon us and you need to embrace it…" she had more to say, that was obvious, but paused, gauging my expression. She was very timid, I decided, either by nature or as a result of her servile-like profession. I sighed, motioned for her to continue, after my hazy mind failed to form a comprehensive vocal response.

"He says you need to tell the captain what he discussed in London," she replied. I tipped my head slightly, only mildly shocked. _Oh honestly, Bruce…can't you do anything yourself?_

"When, exactly?" I asked.

"Oh, he didn't say, miss." The little blond stewardess bobbed her head once and left my presence, off to other useless errands and menial chores. I stood half in the hallway, contemplating. He woke me for this? To pass off his own responsibility? Something which mattered not at all and could be done any time in the remaining days of this voyage?

"Goddamnit…," I spoke aloud, quietly but forcibly and in response to the pain assailing the backs of my eyes. Mr. Isidor Straus exited his stateroom at just that moment. If the old man was at all unnerved by the sight of me wearing nothing but a shawl and nightgown, swearing in an otherwise empty hallway, he did not show it. With a gracious smile he bid me good morning.

"Good morning, Mr. Straus," I replied in kind.

"Lovely day," he commented.

"Oh, indeed…" I muttered, restraining my sarcastic tone, ducking back into the stateroom without another word. _Goddamnit, _I thought again. Bruce wanted me to tell Captain Smith that he would undoubtedly be asked during the next few months to give his account of last year's accident between _Titanic's_ sister ship the _Olympic_ and the _Hawke_, a warship of His Majesty's Royal Navy. The accident had been costly to the White Star Line, incredibly so. Repairs on the _Olympic_ had delayed the launching of the _Titanic_ and months without either ship traversing any ocean brought in little revenue. Now the company stood to lose more as the Navy sought damages in the courts of equity. As captain, Edward Smith had been at the bridge of the _Olympic _at the time of the accident. It felt neither proper nor in good taste to bring his attention to something unfortunate, regrettable and, by all accounts, not his fault.

I washed and dressed, angrily. The anger mitigated the headache in an ill-fashioned but still relieving way. I started to pin my hair up, but on second thought, left it down, in waves around my shoulders. Propriety vexed me at present. I slammed the door behind me when I left the room. 

Captain Smith ordered the last boilers lit. Whether from his own judgment or in response to my brother's constant nagging, I cannot be sure. I was entering the chartroom when he gave the order to Officer Murdoch. The Scotsman accepted the directive without question, his familiar expression, at once impassive and somewhat sullen, firmly in place. I wondered briefly if the bitterness he appeared to cling to was a natural inclination or if, having originally been replaced last minute by Henry Wilde as the Chief Officer on this transatlantic sojourn, might account for it. I did not know the man well enough to decide and gave the matter slight thought, since both men and one of the other two crewmen focused on the charts had noticed me and turned their attention accordingly.

"Miss Ismay?" Captain Smith smiled warmly, but I suspected the presence of a woman in his chartroom was mildly irritating. Officer Murdoch's perpetual scowl remained unchanged, so I was unsure if he directed it towards me or elsewhere. Either way, I took no offense. My mood had cooled considerably during the walk from the stateroom.

"Captain," I answered pleasantly. "If you have a moment to spare, I'd appreciate a word?...privately?" Edward Smith and Officer Murdoch exchanged a glance, but the captain excused himself, led me outside the chartroom into a quiet hallway.

"How may I be of service, Miss Ismay?" he asked. I was momentarily silent, unsure of how to phrase what I had to say.

"Sir, I…well, I was going to wait until after we got to New York to tell you this," I looked down at the deck, sighed. "I just want you to be aware that the Royal Navy blames the incident last year with the _Hawke_ on the _Olympic_ and the White Star Line, by association. They sent a letter last Monday, indicating their intention to seek redress. I have no doubt, you _will_ be asked to testify…"

"They blame my command?" he was frowning now, reasonably affronted by what struck him as an accusation.

"No, not at all…if anything's to blame, the Navy believes it's the ship's design and more than its design, its sheer size," I answered honestly, and continued, "No one doubts your capabilities _or_ your actions as captain." And no one did, he had led a distinguished career, now approaching its end. I'd heard this would be his last trip; I wondered if that was true. He looked at me evenly, unspeaking for a moment.

"Why didn't Mr. Ismay tell me this?"

"He preferred that I speak with you, I suppose."

Edward Smith shook his head in disgust. He thanked me briefly, turned to leave, then turned back and stated, quite surprisingly, "Forgive me, Miss Ismay…but your brother retains a questionable sense of honor."

I nodded silently, smiled sadly, bit my tongue when tempted to reveal just how true the good captain's words actually were.


	7. Chapter 7

My headache became intolerable some time after midday, so I retired to the shadowed parts of quieter decks, took off my glasses, closed my eyes, bowed my head, and covered my face with my hands for some time. I thought of simple, frivolous things, the sound of water falling lightly over stones, the smell of red spruce needles, the feel of yarn twisted around my fingers, anything to distract me from the idea that maybe somewhere deep within my head, some small, demonic creature was taking a hammer and chisel to everything surrounding him. Time helped, the pain passed as it always does, but I remained, head in hands, sitting on a deck chair out of the sun for quite some time, until I heard small, hurried footsteps come to a sudden stop in front of me and a small voice say, "Whatcha' doin'?"

"Dying," I muttered. My response was muffled by my hands. The little voice laughed, and I heard the sound of a purring cat nearby.

"You're crazy, lady. You ain't dyin', you're just sittin'." It was a boy's voice, I decided. Slowly dragged my hands away from my face, opened my eyes, eyelids dropping once, twice, three times against the change in light. A little boy, not more than six or seven, stood in front of me, holding a yellow and white colored tabby cat in his arms. He wore the clothes of a working man's child, a fisherman's cap too big for him, falling into his eyes. His face was dirty but his hands were clean. He had brown eyes, dark and chocolate-colored. Very like Thomas's eyes, I found myself thinking, could have been his son. _Oh God, stop that now…_

"Can you hold Jimmy, lady?" the little boy held out the cat, struggled a little since the cat was almost half the boy's size.

"May I…," I corrected, taking the cat named Jimmy from the little boy's outstretched arms. He didn't acknowledge my grammatical suggestion, ran off as soon as the cat had passed into my hands without another word. Jimmy was a lazy sort of animal, settled on my lap almost immediately, closed his green eyes serenely. I stroked the cat's yellow and white coat, my hands responding to the low vibrations of his purring.

Dusk had settled upon the horizon, the sky dressed in brilliant shades of orange and violet. I could hear muted laughter from further down the deck, the sound of champagne glasses and silverware against china carried from the outdoor veranda. The bandmaster was playing a slow waltz. I would have preferred Debussy, or something like I'd heard the other day, on the second class deck, but the sound was pleasant enough and everyone loves a waltz, so I couldn't fault his choice.

Taking the cat up into my arms, I rose from the deck chair and wandered down toward the open air veranda. Wandered slowly, since my balance was unsteady. Each step caused a throbbing in my head, but the throbbing was low and distant relative to what I'd felt the last few hours, and fading. What's more, I suddenly felt overwhelmed with solitude….so much so that I would have borne far worse than this. I needed to be in company.

Cigarette smoke hovered near the veranda, in filthy clouds around the electric lights. I leaned back against the railing, facing the tables. Two older men played cards, near me. One had a black walnut cane propped up against his knees, the other had a habit of snapping his fingers to cover the tremors of his left hand. They played cribbage, I could tell from the nuances of their exchanges.

"15-2 and a pair is four," muttered the one with the cane, unhappy with his score. He had a full mustache and twisted the ends with his fingers.

"That's it? Are you sure?" asked his companion. The one with the cane said nothing, smoldered silently. His companion lifted his gaze from the half-sheet of paper, torn from an engineer's notebook, lines running both down and over, on which they kept score. He regarded the other man evenly and stated with conviction, "I suppose you would be."

I lifted the cat in my arms, lowered my head, to hide the smile stealing over my features. A waiter came near me, a young man, serious and eager to please, inquired after my health generally and then asked if I wanted anything. I noted the sharp whiteness of his uniform, the delicate gold emblem, flag and star, of the White Star Line emblazoned on the shirt pocket. I shook my head.

"No thank you," I answered simply. The set seriousness in his tone and manner amused me. So much so that I almost answered facetiously, almost told the young waiter that I wanted the world and everything in it or that I wanted the sun, moon and stars in the French style, served with pomegranates and a fashionable red wine. Perhaps he would have laughed, but I doubt it. He was intent on his work, friendly but hardly in the mood for frivolous things like irony.

He moved away, toward a couple at the other end of the veranda. The woman was talking gaily, intently, cigarette held loosely between her fingers. The man answered her with nods and grunts, from behind the newspaper he was attempting to read. He was ignoring her, and she was refusing to acknowledge such a thing. I admired her fortitude in continuing, wondered if, in the end, she would triumph and once again be able to command his attention at will, by a lingering look or well-placed gesture, as she had so many years before. Hmmm…

Well, perhaps, she never had his attention anyway, and this is just the way of things. I was letting my thoughts drift towards nonsense, tried to push them back vainly. What is the nature of love anyway? Does it always cool after time, after the fire that consumes you and drags you along in its whirlwind subsides? Should we expect anything more? _Want _anything more? It would be tiring, after all, to live so passionately, to be ever chained to another, come what may. Much better to be unaffected, calmly slip into denial or apathy, whichever suits a person best.

"You've found a friend?" A voice spoke from my left side, low and Irish. I had not heard anyone approach, so deep in my thoughts was I, and I visibly jumped at his words.

"Dear God!" I exclaimed, catching my breath. "Thomas Andrews, wherever did you come from?" He was momentarily concerned by my blanched features, asked if I was alright. I said I was, but that he should consider announcing his presence in a more concrete fashion before speaking in the future.

"Well, I certainly didn't mean to frighten you, Mary Catherine," he smiled now, amused. Reached his hand out and stroked the yellow and white coat of the cat whose name had escaped me some moments ago. "Where'd this fellow come from?"

"An abrasive little boy handed him off to me," I answered, lifting the cat in my arms again, towards Thomas Andrews this time. I turned my head slightly, looking down the deck, commenting, "He's running around here somewhere."

Thomas Andrews ran his hand over the cat's ears and down the neck, silently. The cat responded to his touch, purring. I watched his face, intently.

"I heard you played tour guide today," I commented absently. He nodded, though his eyes remained diverted, attention caught by the tabby cat. I continued, mildly irritated by his less than attentive response, "Did you appease their curiosities or did you let them guess answers from your enigmatic silences?" He smiled at the cat, then raised his eyes to mine, scolding my impatience with a teasing half frown.

"Do you have a minute?" he asked softly. "I have something for you…"


	8. Chapter 8

I stood in Thomas Andrews's stateroom silently, arms crossed over my chest as I watched him dig through the papers, the piles of plans on his desk, then search the closets on both sides of the room looking for whatever it was he wanted to give me. I doubted that he would ever find it, and the look on my face must have betrayed my skepticism for as he passed by me he said reproachfully,

"I did ask you if you had a few minutes."

"You asked me if I had _a_ minute. _One_ minute," I corrected. "Nothing more was agreed to." I sighed and uncrossed my arms, moved over to his desk, rearranged the plans back into the neat piles they had been in before Thomas had so haphazardly swept them into disarray. I took the half empty glass of red wine, perched precariously and unevenly on his blueprints, and set it aside. His black book, the journal that chronicled every move the Titanic was inclined to make, lay open to a page marked by his careful script, familiar to me from ten year's worth of letters. The first line bore the date of this evening: _April 14, 1912_.

"My mother's birthday was yesterday," I muttered, more to myself than to Thomas Andrews. I had forgotten, I realized, for the first time since her death, five years ago now.

"What was that?" he asked from the closet, coming out finally with something the size of a medium landscape painting or portrait, the face of which was turned from me, enclosed by a dark wood frame, a length of wire attached to the back for purposes of display. I was suddenly much more intrigued than I had been before. My curiosity piqued, I tilted my head, narrowed my eyes. He turned it around slowly.

"Oh, Thomas…," I breathed, coming over towards him now. It _was_ a painting, the painting that had hung in his uncle's office at Harland and Wolff forever and always, or at least as long as I had found myself frequenting the place. The Mayflower, depicted on arrival in Plymouth, sending the first party to shore, banks of clouds in the distance, the sun rising, breaking above the horizon, small bits of shoreline, parsed out here and there, quiet in morning hours, save oars from the rowboat slipping into water and back out again. For whatever reason, I rarely find myself enchanted by anything crafted by human hands. The painting Thomas held was certainly an exception. I repeated, "Oh, Thomas…"

"William cleaned out his office months ago, started giving things away. I was sure you'd want it," Thomas smiled at my expression.

"Oh, I do!" I ran my hands over the top of the frame, down its smooth sides, as he passed the painting into my eager hands. He continued smiling as he went to his desk, sat in the chair next to it, watched me indulge in a moment of girlish joy. It was a silly thing to be excited over, but well, I suppose we all should be allowed a few idiosyncratic gestures. Besides, mine was brief enough, Thomas made sure of that. After I had stared at the lines on the ship for a minute more, held it up to the light and decided exactly where it should be hung in my bedroom in the house in London, he leaned back in his chair, stated quite innocently,

"A man would be jealous of the attention you've turned on that painting."

The tone of his voice betrayed no regret, no meaning beyond the frankness of the statement. But I was standing in the presence of a man whose absence I felt more keenly than any other. Though I would never have admitted such a thing, not in company, nor even to myself in solitary moments, there had not been one day since I met Thomas Andrews that I had not thought of him, whether in passing or in contemplation. His diversion of my attention was woefully unmatched by anything else; not the least of which was the painting I now lowered, leaned against the side of a mahogany dresser. I had responded so uncharacteristically just now because it was _he_ who recognized my silly attachment to it and must have observed, at one time or another, my glances towards it, my musings over it, during long and tedious meetings in the office of William Pirrie.

Memory briefly overcame my thoughts, of my brother's voice distant and the sound of metal and iron and the calls of shipwrights coming up from the docks, creeping in through the windows open wide to the Belfast summer, my hands stilled in taking notes and relevant dictation, my gaze diverted by the serenity of the scene hanging on Viscount Pirrie's wall.

_Are you getting this, Mary Catherine? _Bruce had only momentarily paused in his endless recitation of grand visions and petty details, neither of which was useful to drafting the contract my notes anticipated. Awakened from reverie, my attention turned back to the men's discussion. My brother was talking again, the Viscount balancing his fountain pen on the long edge of a paperweight. Thomas Andrews had smiled at me briefly, privately, before turning back to the plans laid out on the table. He had known me only as Miss Ismay that day, the younger sister and inattentive secretary of J. Bruce Ismay. His smile had been too affectionate, even then. Oh God, he must realize…

"Why did you say that?" I asked quietly, near a whisper. Had we been in the presence of any mild breeze, my words would have been carried off and forgotten as quickly. He said nothing for a moment, sighed.

"Mary Catherine…"

The sound of my name falling so familiarly off his lips affected me, and I assume (from the sudden hardness of his features) affected Thomas as well, unexpectedly. Not because it was an unusual, but rather…because it was not. He said no more, and neither did I.

I wish I had savored that moment of silence, but I did not. I wish I had basked in the knowledge that on that night, in that room, I was in the presence of a man who would have sold his soul to ensure my well-being, who prayed every night that I'd be spared from blindness, that my tribulations be mild, my happiness all-consuming. Instead, I cursed my very existence, wished I'd never been born.

The wine stirred, as if the desk had been jarred; the cut crystal light fixture above us shuddered. Thomas lifted his eyes to it. There was a low vibration running through the floor of the ship. Stepping to one side, placing my hand on the wall deliberately, I felt a vibration there as well, constant, distant, scraping, as if…I narrowed my eyes, alarmed, turned back to Thomas, rising from his chair, his hands spreading over the desk, his gaze still lifted to the shuddering crystal. A few seconds later, when he looked at me, the alarm in his expression matched my own.

The vibrations continued. The _Titanic_ had hit something, and continued brushing against it.


	9. Chapter 9

During the long months and then years in which Belfast hosted the _Titanic_, built her up from the keel to the upper decks and the great smokestacks from which steam and coal dust would eventually pour in strips along the water from one continent to the next, the city's pride in constructing such a massive vessel was somewhat overlooked. The city did not dislike the endeavor, did not embrace it either, much to my brother's dismay. The _Titanic's_ maiden voyage would be the _event of the age_, he would tell me, and wonder aloud why these goddamn Micks didn't understand that. I would shrug, say something about them being too busy building the ship to be excited about other people enjoying its completion.

_Mary Catherine, do you think before you speak at all?_

Then suddenly, in the weeks before the departure, the city came alive, realized the gravity of their accomplishment, laughed in the streets, pointed at the shipyard, muttered amongst themselves, "They've built something God himself could not sink."

This came to mind, as I stood before Thomas, as he took my arm without thinking, bade me stay in his stateroom while he went to the bridge for a moment, while he made sure…

I watched him go, remaining still, rooted to the floor. The vibration had ended, the wine now still, the glass fixture quiet. But…

This was still early April, in the North Atlantic…and ice wreaks havoc against iron and steel. I pressed my fingers to my lips, thinking. Trying to push calculations from my head, the duration of the vibrations and the length of the ship, the compartments, the rivets, the number lifeboats. The lack thereof. This was early April, flowers would be coming up around the house in London, primrose and phlox, daffodils and daisies.

On April 2, 1903, Thomas Andrews brought me a bouquet of wildflowers. He picked them on the road from Manchester to London, stopping by some roadside, telling his driver God-knows-what for an explanation. He came to my brother's house around ten in the morning, where I had resided, with my brother's family and my invalid mother, since my father's death four years previously. Inès, my brother's chambermaid, young, raven haired and late of Marseilles, answered the knocking at the door. I know because I stood at the railing of the staircase on the second floor landing, waiting to see who called at this hour. I had been on my way up, with the mail from the day's post in my right hand.

"Is Miss Ismay at home, Inès?" Thomas Andrews asked the girl. She was clearly pleased that he remembered her name, answered his inquiry swiftly and with an amiability that she had thus far reserved for…well, no one at all, actually. She was a bitter soul, acrid in her everyday manners, routinely ignored my mother's calls, and accomplished my sister-in-law's demands sullenly, though…efficiently. Much later, her manner towards my brother adopted at least that same amiability, if not a doting tone, which I'm afraid suggested an intimacy to even the most objective outside observer. Mademoiselle Inès was dismissed two days before Christmas by Julia, my brother's wife, with little pretext and no apologies for the severance.

"I'm here, Mr. Andrews." My left hand released the banister, I set the letters on the hall stand, haphazardly, and descended the staircase. His gaze lifted at my voice, grinned when his eyes met mine. Inès shut the door behind him. Thomas Andrews took off his coat, handed it to the little French maid, whose expression had returned to its perpetual scowl. She left our presence with a subservient nod of her head to Thomas Andrews, not even a glance towards me. Inès and I were never destined to be in one another's confidence.

"You've come to see my brother?" I asked softly.

"Yes," he answered handing me the bouquet of wildflowers. "But always you first, Mary Catherine." Surprised, but not unhappily so, I took them graciously, tilting my head slightly, giving him a half grin of amusement and gratitude.

I was twenty-one years old, had yet to learn how to effectively circumvent one's true emotions, I suppose. I spent most of my days writing Bruce's letters and taking care of Mother, who remembered my name rarely, but knew my face more often than not. I had long ago been introduced into London society but had yet to be influenced by it. My eyesight was poor, but not yet failing in any drastic manner. I never wore my dark, small rimmed glasses past three in the afternoon. My brother's children were still young, and filled the house with unguarded laughter and childhood adventures. It was spring, and the dogwood trees had bloomed with white and pink colored petals. My brother's new shipbuilder, the thirty-year-old Irishman from Belfast, with his soft voice and kind brown eyes, frequented the house several times a month. I was never happier.

Months later, my brother forbade my attachment to Thomas Andrews. He said it unexpectedly, without provocation, while he read the morning newspaper at the breakfast table, while I helped five-year-old Evelyn, his daughter, my niece, cut an apple into six slices. I turned to him sharply, handed a slice to Evie, who took it eagerly with little fingers and stuffed it into her mouth.

"What did you say?" I demanded.

"I said you're not to get any ideas about becoming Mrs. Andrews, Mary Catherine. I won't have my sister marry a shipbuilder, certainly not an Irish one." He barely looked up from his paper. Seized by a sudden tightening in my chest, a dreadful feeling of four walls closing in on me, I reached out my hand and brought the paper down from his face.

"Bruce, he's your _friend_!" I spoke firmly, meeting his gaze directly. "You have no right…"

"I have every right, my dear. Every right," he answered in a low, menacing voice that made me realize he'd already done something. He set the paper aside now, of his own volition. "I told him you were a girl prone to flights of fancy, and that his ability to hold that fancy has passed."

Furiously, I pushed back the chair, rose from my seat, despite Evie's protests, her clamoring for more apple slices at my side. I would have left the room, would have left the house, ran to Thomas's apartment, denied my brother's vicious lies, but Bruce's next words restrained me.

"The day Thomas marries you is the day William Pirrie will deny his status as construction manager. He will _never_ design another ship, he will be put back in the drawing office. You have my word on that, Mary Catherine." I turned back. Thomas had spent years in that drawing office doing menial tasks that wasted his talent and sapped his creative strength. For years, he had waited patiently and worked endlessly to be given his current position, as head of the design department. There was nothing in the world that he had ever wanted more.

"His uncle would never do that…"

"His uncle is a man of business. He would be remiss in doing anything else."

I had stood still, silently, ensnared by my inability to move from the dining room floor, much as I did now, on the wine colored carpet in Thomas's stateroom. Couldn't think what to do, wanted to scream, wanted to tear out my hair, weep at my brother's feet, and say why? Why have you done this to me? That day I should have ignored his words, and run to Thomas's side anyway, the consequences be damned. I didn't, I returned to the table, finished slicing that apple for Evie, then went upstairs to my mother's bedroom, wept on her bed sheets, as she stroked my hair and murmured softly, "Hush now, Annabelle."

These memories were painful and my subconscious mind remained unnerved by those fixations I had pushed away now many minutes before. The vibration, the ice, the length of the ship, the rivets, the lifeboats, the number of passengers. All those passengers. I suddenly felt overwhelmed by the quietness of the room and could stay there no longer.


	10. Chapter 10

I found them, Thomas and Captain Smith, as they came up from the lower decks, entered the chartroom hurriedly, with Mr. Murdoch and the others following close behind. My brother, dressed in his night robe, hair askew, was with them. I remained out of sight, by the door of the chartroom, listening, watching through the space between the door and its frame.

"Most unfortunate, Captain!" Bruce spoke but no one acknowledged him. Thomas unfurled a large copy of the ship's design on the table in the center of the room. The captain held the edges while he placed a makeshift paperweight at the far end. The young officer on his left did likewise with the nearside.

"Water…14 feet above the keel in ten minutes," Thomas's voice did not waver, but the mechanical nature with which he spoke could not mask his trepidation either. He placed his hands on the drawing, moving them as his references required. "…in the forepeak…in all three holds…and in boiler room six."

"That's right, sir," came the soft, hesitant voice of the young officer standing near the table.

"When can we get underway, damnit?" demanded my brother, with a scowl and pursed lips, glaring at Thomas, speaking without pretense, formality or gentility.

"That's five compartments!" Thomas answered him directly, then turned to Captain Smith. My brother, now scolded, paced the floor with heavy footsteps. I moved slightly, avoided his observance. "She can stay afloat with the first _four_ compartments breached. But not five…not five."

Thomas's hands ran over the drawing before him once more, as he shook his head. "As she goes down by the head, the water will spill over the bulkheads…at E deck…from one to the next…back and back. There's no stopping it." Now his voice began to betray some disconsolation and morosity. The captain, ever a pragmatist, responded to it.

"The pumps—" he began but Thomas shook his head once more.

"The pumps will buy you time…but minutes only," he looked around at them all and then elsewhere, as if seeing the events that would take place in the next couple hours unfold before him with unstoppable certainty. "From this moment, no matter what we do, the Titanic _will_ founder."

_Dear God_, I prayed, perhaps even whispered, too low to be heard, biting back a cry, brought my hands up to my face, clasped. In their disbelief and dread, the men in the chartroom fell momentarily silent.

"This ship cannot sink—" Bruce stated incredulously, insisted as was his custom, demanded implicitly that Thomas retract such a statement.

"She's made of iron, sir! I assure you she can! And she will, it's a mathematical certainty." Thomas would not tolerate Bruce Ismay's pompous irrationality, not on this night. He held my brother's gaze directly, and I saw his face plainly, for in facing my brother, he faced the doorway. For more than a decade, he'd placated this man, passed on many a chance to pronounce him a fool and prove it most decidedly. It wasn't worth it, that's what he'd said to me once, after he accused me of being meek in my brother's presence and I countered by asking why he never challenged Bruce, why he never denounced his arrogance, his selfishness, his pride. Well, he did so now. The impatience of his answer, the steady conviction in his expression simmered with long suppressed indignation.

His jaw moved slightly, as he caught sight of me, standing in sight now, just beyond the half open doorway. He looked pained then, suddenly world-weary, anger leaving him, and did not hold my gaze, turned back briskly.

"How much time?" The captain suddenly seemed old to me, as if he'd aged ten years in half as many minutes. But still he reached for control, needed to find his footing in this tempest. Thomas stared at the drawing, running numbers in his head.

"An hour…," Thomas spoke softly now. "Two at most."

At these words, something much worse than disbelief and shock settled in the chartroom, fear interwove its grasping fingers into every man's expression and stature, hung in the air among them like that cigarette smoke hung around those electric lights on the open air veranda. This fear, like a shadow, passed Mr. Murdoch's countenance and this frightened me more than anything else. Mr. Murdoch was not a man accustomed to showing emotion of any kind. He swallowed hard.

"And how many aboard, Mr. Murdoch?"

"Two thousand, two hundred souls aboard, sir."

Without my knowledge, a tear gathered on the side of my eyelash and fell. I lifted my hand to the side of my face to brush it away. Two thousand, two hundred souls…and lifeboats for little more than half of them. I remember the conversation in London, I remember the insistence that the deck be uncluttered by things unnecessary. Thomas had been unhappy with the decision, but was overruled. _Dear God_, I prayed once more.

"I believe you will get your headlines, Mr. Ismay." The captain's bitter words resounded through the room. He had turned to my brother slowly, deliberately and since I neglected to duck out of sight in apathy, I remained in view. He had not minced his words, even upon noting my presence. But his lingering scrutiny, past Bruce's shoulder, in my direction, brought my brother's gaze round as well.

"Mary Catherine?!" I resented the sound of Bruce's voice. Detested the sound of it suddenly. A thousand things he could have said, words of comfort, reassurance, but nothing, just my name, hurled at me like an accusation. Thomas brought his fist down on the table hard, rattling the compass and ruler lying near him. The sound was both harsh and startling. Mr. Murdoch blinked, Bruce visibly jumped.

"Captain Smith? The lifeboats need to be launched _now_." No sooner than Thomas said this he strode from the chartroom, brushed past Bruce without so much as a glance, took my hand in his own on his way by, firmly, with purpose, dragged me away from that gathering of men, with white washed faces, already marked for death, and close to embracing hopelessness.


	11. Chapter 11

At this time of night, the corridors were usually empty, ghostly in their solitude. Most passengers retired at an earlier hour and those that did not were inclined to linger in the smoking room or the Palm Court, where their political rantings and philosophical musings could be heard in company. This night was not so, and we passed more than one passenger clad in a nightgown or robe, peeking out of their staterooms, or wandering in the halls, speculating amongst themselves about the sound that had wakened them not long before. Thomas retained possession of my hand as he led me through the hallways, calmly but insistently commanding all those we passed to get up to the boat deck immediately.

The electric lights in the corridor were too bright, and I held back more tears, this time tears of pain, as I felt the impending presence of that familiar dull aching on either side of my head. I lowered my eyes, focused on Thomas's footsteps, one after the other, steady and even. I drew strength from his strength, from the feel of his fingers interlaced with mine. We met Molly Brown, gin and tonic in hand, coming down the stairs near the Palm Court. She was in high spirits, seemed pleased to see us there together, gave me a knowing glance, smiled broadly, seemed perplexed that neither one of us returned the gesture.

"Why, Tom, you look like someone's canceled Christmas," she teased him jovially. He'd didn't indulge her, not even momentarily. Just told her she needed to be on the boat deck directly.

"That's what the boy upstairs said, but listen, son, this is April," she stated, still retaining her felicitous disposition. "I'm gonna need more than this if I'm goin' up on any boat deck"—she pointed to the almost sleeveless, gauze like evening dress she was clothed in—"Your Mary-girl there could use a jacket too, Tom. She'll catch her death, she's pale as ashes as it is."

"Mary Catherine will be fine…," he spoke adamantly, momentarily squeezed my hand tighter as he did, without facing me. He sighed, and walked past the woman, dragging me along with him, turning back only briefly, "Get something if you must, Mrs. Brown, but get it quickly!"

Seamen and some of the lower ranked officers were already on the boat deck, sent earlier to uncover the lifeboats, loose them from their fastenings. Steam poured from the funnels overhead, falling in filthy clouds to the deck, where snow covered ice, like shattered glass, had been strewn down the length of the ship. Above the deafening roar of steam came the calls of frantic, disorganized men, voices raised in an intelligible manner as they struggled with the lifts. Thomas approached the nearest sailor, leaving me by the rail, as the boy fumbled with the mechanism of one of the Wellin davits.

"Turn to the right!" he shouted above the noise, impatience unmasked. "Pull the falls taut before you unchock. Have you never had a boat drill?" The young sailor moved to the opposite side, positioned himself to pull the falls.

"No, sir!" he answered simply. "Not with these new davits, sir!"

_No, no, no…_ my thoughts were becoming a mantra, devoid of anything but an unconscious denial of this night. Thomas shook his head, disgusted, moved down the deck swiftly, directing the sailors.

The air had turned frigid. I crossed my arms against the cold, glancing away from the men, looking out across the water as I did. Night had long since settled on the sea, its blue waters now black and murky. The sea remained calm, possessing an ungodly stillness that betrayed no sinister divinations, but neither took notice of the vessel drowning in her midst. _Fickle mistress_, I thought, remembering my impromptu speech at lunch days before, _would sooner leave ice in your veins, would sooner drown you while you slept._

A fluttering of movement back on deck caught my attention. A few men and women, dressed in suits and formal evening gowns, coming out onto the boat deck, hesitantly, slowly, unnerved by the racket and the coolness of evening. Mr. Murdoch pushed his way past them, towards Thomas and the sailors still struggling with the boat lifts. His expression had resumed a stony façade, a blankness I much preferred to the shadow of doubt and despair that passed his features in the chartroom. He met my gaze briefly on his way by, held it evenly, but said nothing as he passed. I would not have heard his words in the surrounding din anyway.

Mr. Guggenheim and his mistress, Madame Aubert, were among the passengers wandering out onto the boat deck. I knew them both, though neither well. During this voyage, they'd been a fixture at my brother's dinner table and Mr. Guggenheim's reputation is well established, but I had yet to have a conversation with either. Nevertheless, in seeing a familiar face, Madame Aubert strode over to me directly. Mr. Guggenheim followed close behind.

"What's going on?" She leaned towards my left side, shouted above the noise. Her usually soft and silky French accent gave way to shrillness in its heightened volume.

"They're launching the lifeboats," I replied, gesturing at the men before us.

"Dear God!...whatever for?" Mr. Guggenheim seemed imposed upon, almost angry. Evidently, Captain Smith had not told his passengers the direness of our circumstances. I was not surprised; no good would come from instilling panic. In a calm manner, I replied that the lifeboats were a precaution that the Captain deemed necessary. Mr. Guggenheim frowned. Madame Aubert muttered something in French, to which he gave assent. Not long afterward, they left the boat deck and went back inside. The other passengers followed shortly.

Thomas returned from further down the deck, having finished with the davits, striding quickly towards me. He glanced around the empty deck, incredulously. Catching sight of Mr. Murdoch, he shouted over the roar of steam.

"Where are all the passengers?" he demanded. I saw Mr. Murdoch, struggling with the tackle on the nearest boat, shrug.

"They've all gone back inside," he yelled back, flatly. "Too damn cold and noisy for them."

Thomas looked dejected. Took out his pocket watch by its brass chain, marked its face and replaced it frowning. He returned to me, took off his jacket and handed it to me, meeting my gaze finally as he did. I took the coat gladly, threw it around my shoulders. My hands were shaking slightly, though from cold or apprehension, I could not tell.

Thomas surveyed the empty deck once more, his expression betraying his thoughts with abandon. Two thousand, two hundred souls, apathetic to their fate, loitering in the inner chambers of an iron casket. They would all die if he did not act quickly.

He would leave me now, I could see. _Must _leave me. Impulsively, I embraced him tightly, buried my face in his chest. He smelled of cedar and tobacco. His arms enfolded me, held me close, stroked my hair.

"There aren't enough lifeboats, Mary Catherine," he spoke softly in my ear. I didn't trust my voice, but nodded my head against him. He took hold of my shoulders, pulled me back from him, enough to see my face, to mark the despair he found there. With his right hand, he brushed my tears away gently.

"Helen's my wife…" he said with insistence, his voice breaking, his strong fingers clutching my shoulders tightly, his gaze not wavering from mine. "…But God forgive me, I've never loved anyone but you."

Maybe he said my name once more, but I can't be sure. He was gone before I could bring myself to speak, vanished through the cloud of steam surrounding the entrance to the foyer.


	12. Chapter 12

"Miss Ismay, you must get in the boat!" One of the young officers was speaking to me, I knew that, words were forming on those lips, but my ability to discern what those words meant had left me. I stood with Thomas's jacket clutched around me, standing to the side of a small gathering of bewildered passengers in various states of dress. Nearly half were in nightclothes. One woman had rags tied in her hair. Another wore slippers and a nightgown. A girl, not much older than me, in a dark blue evening gown, in a dramatic cut, and a plunging neckline that showed a disdain for tradition and propriety, touched my arm.

"Did you here him, dearie?" she asked, reading the vacant stare of my sight charitably, as if I hadn't heard the man. The roaring of steam had stopped abruptly, minutes before. The odd silence that its absence left behind was short-lived, as that young officer (Mr. Light-something-or-other?) shouted out commands. _Women and children into the boats. Please ladies, into the boats…_

The boat was half full, or not even. The officer wanted to lower the ropes, only I and the women now forcibly taking my arm stood in his way. I did not respond well to the woman's touch, I tore my arm from her grasp, backed away into the company of the four or five men standing, watching their wives and daughters be loaded into the boat. Mr. Astor and his dog, Kitty, among them and I took refuge in the shadow of his imposing figure.

"Miss Ismay, I will not hold this boat for you!" the young officer warned.

"Mary Catherine, please!" I wavered at Madeline Astor's tearful request, but found I could not move from the deck, even had I wanted to. I felt suddenly heavy, as if iron weights had been strapped to my shoes.

"Lower away, sir," I answered softly, finally. Madeline appeared stunned, called out another plea that I join her, follow the officer's orders. I told her I'd be coming shortly, that I'd be in the next boat, and not to worry, that I just couldn't leave quite yet.

"You heard her, lads! Lower away! By the left and right, together. Steady now!" came the officer's command, firm and with purpose. If this young man lived through the night, he would make a more than capable captain someday.

As the boat lowered and Madeline's face disappeared from view, Mr. Astor leaned over toward me, said quietly, "You must do as these officers bid you, Miss Ismay. You shouldn't assume that they'll always be another boat." He meant well, but I laughed ruefully at his chiding.

"Especially if they intend to send them all out to sea half full, Mr. Astor!" I replied bitterly, briskly, and marched off down the deck like a woman taken leave of her senses. I could not get in that boat, I could not get it any of them. Not yet.

Why did I not reply when Thomas said those things to me? Why did I not return the endearments, tell him I had not abandoned him so long ago, that I loved him then and that I love him now. Never a spirit so close to my own. If he left this earth and I did not follow soon behind…I could not think on it.

The whistling of a flare sounded above me, burst red against the night sky.

"Goddamn it…," I muttered under my breath. In about ten minutes, maybe less, this still mostly abandoned boat deck, would be impassable, panic can be quelled only so long, and soon everyone would notice the shifting deck, the incline that was increasing as one walked aft to stern. It was inevitable, the flare only reminded me of it.

"I can't do this. Don't make me do this. I lack strength, I _will_ falter…," I was praying aloud, I realized. I stared into the sky, towards its zenith and the flecks of red, melting into the darkness, expecting perhaps, to find the face of God staring back at me.

"You'll gather more than some of your children into the arms of heaven tonight," I muttered with vehemence, absurdly scolding the master of the universe. I stopped walking abruptly. The breeze caught the ends of my loose hair and spun it gently. I heard a soft sound near me, the sound of a child crying. I turned toward the sound, but saw nothing. I walked toward the bulkhead, and on the other side, sitting on the same stairs I had lingered on days ago, listening to _Brigit O'Malley_, was the little boy who'd run by me earlier, left his yellow and white colored cat in my keeping. His hands were pressed against his eyes, as he tried to wipe his tears away, to no avail. I knelt down beside him, was silent for a moment, let him notice my presence.

"What's the matter?" I asked softly, quietly, smiling slightly, and pushing his cap back on his head, taking his hands from his face, wiping his tears away, calming him down. He breathed heavily, upset. When he recognized me, he straightened up, tried to act as I assume his father taught him…men don't cry, after all, not in front of a woman. Not even this little man. I smiled kindly once more, he wiped the back of his hand across his face.

"He ran away, lady," he sniffed.

"Who ran away?"

"Jimmy…the fireworks scared him."

"The fireworks?" I repeated. _Oh, I see, the flares, I suppose._ "Well, he couldn't have gone far. Where's your mother?" He answered that she was down by the gate, that she'd told him to go down toward the decks for the rich people. The smile on my face died without ceremony and I asked what he meant by "gate." He answered simply, as a five-year-old might, but I understood all too fully. _Oh, but they wouldn't dare…_

_Wouldn't they, Mary Catherine?_ That was Thomas's voice in my head, repeating words from long ago. It was my mother's voice, and Julia's saying, _Oh dear, what wouldn't a man do? To protect his way of life, to make sure he's never proven wrong?_ She was always a wise woman, my sister-in-law. Wouldn't doubt the thing for a minute. Wouldn't doubt locked gates across third class hallways, or lifeboats launched half-filled.

I picked the little boy up into my arms. He came willingly, wrapped his arms around my neck. I turned and walked back toward the boats.


	13. Chapter 13

The boat deck was crowded, finally. Passengers lined up to board the boats, speaking amongst themselves, musing aloud, commenting on the chill of the night. The noise of two or three hundred voices carried out over the water, mixing with a crisp melody, a familiar polka, the name of which I was unsurprised to find I could not recall. The cello player and three violinists had come out on deck and now played with abandon. I was disorientated by the music, could not decide whether its eerie presence was soothing or altogether jarring to the senses. I found myself judging the band leader's choice once more, again wished he'd play Debussy, if only for a moment. Then shook my head slightly, wondering at my own inattentiveness and fixation on silly details.

Consider that moment, wherein you find yourself the sparrow in the midst of a hurricane…or better yet, consider a half-blind woman carrying a soon-to-be motherless little boy through the crowded boat deck of a sinking ship, lamenting the selection of music. Here is where life seems very oddly construed indeed.

I remember, as my mother faded from this world, on the day before the night she died, she informed me that she rather preferred to die on green pillowcases, if it wasn't too much trouble? The pale blue ones on which her head lay were distressing, not at all a pleasant color.

_Oh, and if you would, Mary Catherine, bring me my lace shawl as well. The one from the Mediterranean. I always said I'd be buried in that shawl. And mark my words, Mary Catherine, I die this night. Mark my words._

Oh, I certainly did not doubt _anything_ she said in that hour or so before drifting off to sleep forever. She knew my name for the first time in years, after all, spoke in lucid tones I had not heard since my father's death, even if she was directing that lucidity in absurd directions. Perhaps this is the natural way of endings. When all hope is lost, when the resolution is clear, why not turn attention on frivolous things, no less controllable for their frivolity?

Then again, my mother _was_ crazy, and perhaps this is all nonsense.

I pushed my way through a gathering of men and women, near lifeboat number six and would have stopped there, had I not observed Captain Smith off by himself further ahead, standing near the railing, gaze seaward. I approached, shifting the little boy in my arms, freeing my right hand, reaching forward and touching his arm lightly, just above the elbow. He turned to me.

"Captain, you—" I stopped abruptly, but I don't think Edward Smith noticed. He had the expression of a lost soul, drifting down the River Styx, blanched features of a man lacking consolation.

"Not one ship in fifty miles, Miss Ismay…no one's coming to save us." His whisper was bluntly stated, but barely audible. The little boy in my arms was holding a large portion of my hair, and when the captain said those words, in that somber tone, the little boy grasped my hair tighter and unconsciously pulled it hard. I slapped his little hands away lightly, insistently, though not unkindly.

"Oh, you mustn't say that," I replied, firmly, suddenly very sure that the good captain had given up, had succumbed to the workings of fate in an entirely dangerous manner. "Never that, sir…not while you have men and women who believe otherwise."

He took my arm, held it too tightly, saying, "They're all going to die, Mary Catherine!"

I recoiled from his touch, bade him keep his voice lower, remove that blighted speech from his tongue. His manner bordered on hysteria, and I would not be swept up into it. _Would not_, I promised myself as I straightened up and shifted the little boy in my arms once more.

A young couple stood near enough to see our exchange, though evidently not near enough to hear it. The young man, awkwardly helping the young woman into her life jacket, paused in his ministrations and cast a glance towards us. But he said nothing, seemed undisturbed by any apparent misunderstanding between Edward Smith and myself. I sighed.

"You would do well to remember that you are _captain_ here," I continued in the same way as before, with determination. His idleness of thought and hand were not appropriate, not for the captain of this ship. Easy enough, but inappropriate. For God's sake, we are _English_, I wanted to shout. I shook my head, added, "Goodnight, sir," and then turned from him, left him by the deck railing, to his despair and bereavement, the sight of which I could stand no longer.

"We _will_ retain dignity," I muttered to myself, convincingly. The little boy in my arms, echoed me softly. Surprised by his voice, I glanced down at him, dirty little urchin from South Wales or some other near place (I found it odd that I had not recognized his accent earlier since I now heard it distinctively, even when he spoke quietly) and, meeting his dark brown eyes, that wise look well beyond his years, I could not help but think, once more, that he could easily be the son of Thomas Andrews.

"What's it mean, lady?" He was asking either about "retain" or "dignity" or perhaps both together. _It means Mary Catherine Ismay is a fool_, I answered in my head automatically. But to the little boy I responded more acceptably.

"It means no more tears now. Tears never help anyway, do they?" He shook his head from side to side, wiping his tear-stained cheeks clean. I smiled at his set expression. Wished I might see this little boy grow into a man.

"Mary, honey! What're you doin'?" Molly Brown's unmistakable voice rang out over the boat deck. I looked up, saw her helping Mrs. Dewitt-Bukater into lifeboat number 6, which had yet to be lowered. The officers were not moving fast enough.

I walked over to Mrs. Brown, handed the boy in my arms to her without explanation. She took him without question. The little Welsh boy clung to me momentarily, afraid, but by speaking tokens of encouragement, I convinced him to stay with Molly Brown, who regarded me with a measured look of sudden comprehension and…pity.

"He'd want you to get on a boat," she stated flatly, knowing that I'd pay her words no heed. I shook my head slowly, deliberately as I pushed the fisherman's cap back on the little Welsh boy's head, out of his eyes.

"Good luck, Molly Brown." I replied with finality, left her presence without another word, with not one glance backward. My remaining hesitation had ended. I condemned myself in one breath, cast myself upon the mercy of God and all things holy.


	14. Chapter 14

If not for the Dewitt-Bukater girl, I might never have found Thomas. Chaos had descended upon the _Titanic_, with the slanting of the ship, and the rumors spreading fast, from one person to the next. _Why did they allow only women and children into the boats if the boats could accommodate all? Why dozens of flares sent into the sky if rescue was certain?_ The crowd on the boat deck increased and pushed forward, their pace quickened with insistence. I pushed my way through, back down towards the hallways that ran the length of the first class corridors. The electric lights were still too bright in those corridors, my eyes adjusted slowly from the relative darkness of the boat deck and I averted my eyes towards the floor, ran my fingers along the wall, used my sight sparingly. Soon the lights would dim and go out anyway. I was surprised that they hadn't already. The thought was not at all comforting.

I preferred walking through low light, and whether cast by moon and stars or kerosene street lamps, I cared not. But I much preferred walking through bright, even painfully bright, electric light to walking through none at all. Blindness feels very much like being trapped in a box under the stairs.

My father's country estate had extensive grounds, with a tributary of the Thames running straight through it. The original manor house had been built by a Roman proconsul in the sixth century for his second wife, so the story goes. Successive generations built around it, added to it, renovated it, until it resembled, I'm sure, nothing that Roman proconsul would be able to recognize. That is, except for the west side hallway, running the length of the west wing, on the north side, an eighth of a mile from one end to the other, constructed with granite and marble, alabaster molding, floor to ceiling windows spaced no more than three yards apart. When the moon shines brightest, full and hanging low in the sky, the windows allow an incredible amount of light into the hallway and it reflects against the whiteness of the alabaster. If light can seem cold, it is in this context, where moonlight and stone produce eerie luminescence.

I used to walk that hallway, by myself, as a child, in the stillness of summer nights, when I could not sleep, and found the darkness of the inner rooms overwhelming.

And oh, what I wouldn't give to be walking that hallway instead of these corridors…

I almost turned right towards the reception room, on instinct, nothing more. But Rose Dewitt-Bukater's voice down the left corridor restrained me, made me stop and turn towards her.

"Mr. Andrews, thank God!" she exclaimed, breathless. "Where would the Master of Arms take someone under arrest?"

"What?" Thomas, not understanding, answered her incredulously. "You have to get to a boat right away, Rose! No time…"

"No!" The girl was on a mission, you could see it in the way she stood, hear it in her tone, words spoke with determination, laced in purpose. "I'll do this with or without your help, sir. But without will take longer."

Thomas paused, must have recognized her resolve.

"Take the elevator to the very bottom, go left, down the crewman's passage, then make a right," he said sternly, seeing the plans in his head, the shape of the Master of Arms' office, the height of the ceiling, the port side windows.

"I'll take her, Thomas," I commented from the far side. Both of them turned towards my voice, unaware of my presence until then. Rose seemed astonished, wondered, I imagine, why I offered this. And further wondered, I'm sure, why Bruce Ismay's sister was not on boat six with her mother and the other first class ladies of notable society. Thomas said nothing, the expression passing his features spoke well enough for him.

_What have you done, Mary Catherine?_

"She'll be longer trying to find which right to take in the crewman's passage, and it's likely near to flooding," I continued. There was no time for objection, for explanation. I knew this ship as well as he did, and time was running out. The lower decks, where the Master of Arms would keep his prisoner, might well be under water already. He shook his head, looked as though he'd like to strangle me.

"Hurry, Mary Catherine!" he insisted, and I nodded violently, led Rose down the corridor past Thomas, leaving him to empty the state rooms, corral the remaining passengers to the boat deck. I turned back briefly.

"Thomas!"

He looked up, met my gaze.

"They've put gates across the third class corridors…"

My words settled over him like unwanted sleep, and he looked older suddenly, as Captain Smith had earlier, in the chartroom, and tired, as if the weight of Atlas lay on his chest, crushing him. _Oh, but they wouldn't dare…_

As Thomas raced down the aft side corridor, Rose and I ran to the elevators on the opposite side. The lift operator was reaching up, closing his gate when we came near, our intention plain.

"Sorry, ladies, the lifts are closed---" He had half-turned when he heard our approaching footsteps, and his awkward stance allowed Rose to shove him back into the elevator, with surprising force. I followed her in.

"I'm _through_ being polite, goddamnit! I may never be polite again in my life!" she exclaimed, pouring every ounce of her frustration onto this poor elevator operator. Her approach was effective, and, I suppose, necessary. This was not a time to mince words. And she did not, commanded, "Now take us down!"

The operator fumbled with the gate. I grabbed the left side and helped him lower the wrought iron door as he started the lift. The mechanism lowered smoothly, and faster than I recalled, past the upper decks, one floor and then another. As we neared the bottom, I prepared myself for what we might find there.

"Go slow now," I warned softly, hoping the flooding was minimal, if present at all. The operator slowed the carriage.

Water poured into the lift, ice cold and swirling around our legs, in rushing fury. Rose cried out, in surprise and anguish. The lift operator, as well, jumped at its sudden appearance. We'd landed in a foot or so of seawater. My black laced boots offered no warmth against the frigidness, my ankles and lower calves ached in response, taking my mind off the pain in my head momentarily. Rose clawed the doors opened and hiking her skirt up, splashed out of the lift. I followed.

Hearing the lift gate close once more, I turned back, where the operator was fumbling with the lift controls, overcome by panic and hysteria, in the face of the rising water. I reached back took his hand through the wrought iron door.

"Give us two minutes, we'll be back directly," I stated firmly, without compromise. "If we aren't, take the lift back up…_after_ two minutes. You understand?"

He nodded, grateful that I didn't acknowledge that he had been about to abandon two women at the bottom of a sinking ship. Shamed that he had. Rose was already splashing down the crewman's passage, left as Thomas had instructed. I chased after her.

"Rose, you've gone too far!" I called, as she passed the hidden cross corridor without realizing. She turned back, said softly, "Thank you, Mary Catherine."

We took the right hand corridor, two rows of closed doors on either side. Rose, without pausing, striding through the foot of water as fast as she could, turned back to me, question obvious.

"Last one on the left," I answered.


	15. Chapter 15

"Jack!" the Dewitt-Bukater girl shouted as we approached the Master of Arms office, both of us struggling with the weight of heavy skirts, now drenched in near two feet of water. She called again, "Jaaaaack!"

I considered asking just who it was we were attempting to find, but the chattering of my teeth against the frigidness of the water and the chillness of the air quelled my curiosity. Each step was painful, the ice water swirled around us viciously and rose steadily.

And honestly…I didn't care at all.

What in God's name had compelled me to bring the girl down here anyway? I thought this bitterly. It had been instinctive, and impulsive and entirely uncalled for. Did I _want _to be unhappy? Was that it? Because what I had just done, in finding Thomas and then choosing to remove myself from his presence almost immediately, once again, without a goddamn mention of anything that needed to be said, seemed to indicate just that.

_But he was busy…_I rationalized. Then answered my rationalization sardonically, _And you're a goddamn masochist_.

Ten years! Ten long years I've done this, hidden away, silenced myself, denied myself and to what purpose? No truly, did I _want _to be unhappy? Because although I would never believe such a thing of anyone, myself included, my actions led to no other conclusion.

The day my brother told me Thomas Andrews was engaged to the daughter of John Doherty Barbour, the linen manufacturer from Northern Ireland who lately fashioned himself to be a baron, I said nothing, I did not cry out against it. I finished the day as planned, walked down to St. Paul's to give alms to the beggars sitting on the steps outside, and bought blackcurrant for cordial and rosemary for Julia's roasted chicken on the way back.

Thomas himself told me in his uncle's office, a couple months later, after Bruce and the others had left the room. He waited for me customarily, since I always lingered behind after these meetings, gathering up my notes, arranging them in a comprehensible manner. I did not offer my congratulations, or even acknowledge that I knew my congratulations would be appropriate.

"You look well," he mentioned. It was a sincere comment, a friendly turn of phrase. I answered shortly.

"Thank you," I spoke without a smile, in an overly cold manner, half because I was concentrating on the written documents in front of me and their necessary order and half because I was enraged by his generous manner. Did he never get upset with me? My apparent lack of care? My incivility?

"I'm getting married…" He let the words hang in the air, and they lay suspended in the air between us, settling slowly, over my fingers and hands, my hair, my eyelids, my mouth, like coal dust at a train yard, coating the platform with filth and grime. At his words, a feverish depression assailed my mind, body and soul. I said nothing for a moment, paused in my filing, my shuffling of papers only briefly, to close my eyes against a spinning room and clench my fist once in frustration. I straightened up, met his gaze directly for the first time that entire day. His brown eyes were unguarded, but unfathomable in their depths, and I turned my gaze elsewhere soon enough, back to shuffling, back to filing.

"Well, I suppose it isn't wise for a man to remain unmarried, is it?" I asked rhetorically. I was quoting the ladies of London society, parroting conventional wisdom, speaking impersonally and without affectation. Emotionless, reserved, I was an empty shell of a woman. At least…this is how I hoped to seem and must have seemed to him. Suppression is a talent I'm well versed in. After a long pause, he spoke again, softly, quietly.

"The world can be a very lonely place, Mary Catherine," he stated frankly. I did not look up this time, though I knew he wanted me to, and he left me alone in his uncle's office quite soon thereafter. I'd rejected him, this time of my own volition.

I sometimes envision a different ending to this memory. I sometimes imagine that after he spoke those final words, I _did_ look up, I removed my dark glasses to reveal the tears in my eyes, and I held up my hands, palms upraised in intimation. And I hear myself saying, "Goddamn you, Thomas! Goddamn you!"

He forced me to live a half life, my arms aching for the husband he was to me, the children we should have had. If he loved me less, I could bear it more. You can't defy fate and expect the road to be smooth. You can't fight against a current without drowning. My strength was waning; I had been drowning for quite some time.

I had stopped wading through the ice water, without knowing it. I stood at the end of the corridor. That young woman, with her brazen notions and shallow passions, was now far ahead of me. I could take part in her fool's errand no longer. I had been handed dozens of chances, all wasted, all long forgotten. And if I continued with this girl, who I did not know, and frankly, did not particularly like, I knew, with that strength of certainty that tells us the sun rises in the east, that I would never have another chance to waste.

"Rose!" I called after her, my voice echoing in the relative emptiness of the corridors, off the water and the walls. She had called the boy's name again, but turned back at my voice, surprised that I was so far back. She had thought I followed her closely. She tipped her head, irritated that I was lingering behind. I smiled sadly, what more could I do?

"Good luck, my dear," I said sincerely, my voice paper-thin and distant, even to my own ears. The water was playing tricks with our voices. She did not reply, nor yell after me, for it was at that moment that the boy she searched for finally returned her call and, distracted, she turned back and ran towards his voice. In turn, I walked away, towards the stairwell near the crewman's west side quarters.

I never saw Miss Dewitt-Bukater again.


	16. Chapter 16

The crewman's staircase led up to the E-deck corridors, to the laundry room, near the storage closets. I chose that staircase because further up, leading off the east side E-deck corridor is a separate staircase running up to the boat deck on the forward starboard side. Both staircases were unused by passengers, small and aesthetically unfinished, but certainly the most direct way up and out of these rapidly flooding hallways. The rate at which the water rose was astounding. I looked back down the passageway, marked the difference between now and ten minutes before.

My attention diverted, I missed the first step, slipped and fell. I thrust out my hand to grab the banister, but my reach was too short, my hand found a water-covered step instead, and I found myself floundering in ice water.

"Goddamnit!" I cried, rising as soon as I found my footing, my breath nearly stolen from my lungs by the frigid sting of the North Atlantic. I grasped my shoulders, hugging my chest, attempting vainly to quell my shivering. I stepped up and out. Stepping out of the water was momentarily relieving, the pain and ache ceased briefly. But my dress was drenched, and the air out of the water was nearly as cold as the water itself. I brought my hair to one side, rung it out, grabbed the bottom of my skirt, tried to squeeze the water from it, before climbing the stairs. My hands ached, my legs felt weighed down by irons.

I picked this first staircase because of the other one, no other reason, but as I entered the laundry room, rubbing life back into my hands, brushing as much water from my skirt and bodice as possible, I laughed and mused at my own sudden turn of fortune.

Laundry, dresses and jackets, skirts and sweaters, chemises and blouses, in every imaginable size and fashion, surrounded me. They hung from every possible standing object, every hook on the wall, and lay over every piece of furniture, every wash basin, wherever the laundresses abandoned them after work earlier this evening. And oh dear God in heaven, the clothes were all _dry_.

"Small favors," I muttered, then laughed out loud once more.

I slipped out of my day dress, ripping the buttons that ran the length of the front as I did, grabbing a full chemise from a brass hook on the wall as soon as I released myself from the icy fabric. I replaced the chemise I wore. The soft, dry cotton fell against my skin warmly, as if in mercy. My eyes fell on a deep green evening dress, layers upon layers of silk, heavy skirt, trimmed in Belgian lace. And then a red and black striped French day dress, chiffon, satin lined, five gored petticoat, white as fine porcelain, peeking out from beneath. Beautiful…and so dismally impractical.

I found a simple blue frock, and a long wool overcoat, that fell to just above my knees. I pulled my hair to one side again, tried to dry it with a cotton blouse, then discarded the blouse on the floor by my torn dress and soaked chemise. I held the overcoat closer to my still shaking frame, lamented my lack of gloves and left the laundry room.

I don't know what I thought as I climbed the stairs to the starboard side boat deck. I'm not sure what compelled me up to the boat deck anyway. Thomas would not be waiting by any boat. He would still be emptying the state rooms, ushering passengers to the upper decks. Or elsewhere, but not on the boat deck. There was no reason. He was resolved to his fate. The cold water had impaired my ability to think rationally. In fact, I thought of nothing but how cold I was, held the wool coat closer still.

And then, suddenly, coming out from the dark, silent stairwell, to the boat deck, voices raised in a racket, passengers milling about, the crowd still sparse on this side, officers running back and forth, my brother standing no more than twenty feet from me, I forced myself to focus. Bruce stood near Collapsible Boat C, with Mr. Murdoch, Mr. Hockley and some other man I did not recognize. Mr. Murdoch called out for any more women and children, as he was evidently about to lower the boat and had room for one more.

"Women and children? Any more women and children?" Mr. Murdoch was looking directly at Mr. Hockley in a strange manner. Mr. Hockley swore, and moved off with the other man, striding down the deck at a set pace, as if he had somewhere to be and he'd missed the appointment. But where must one be on a sinking ship? I watched both men until they were out of sight, perplexed.

"Miss Ismay!" Mr. Murdoch must have said my name twice, for his words held an insistence that said he'd called to me once before. I snapped my head back, walked over to where both he and Bruce stood, by the boat.

"Yes, Mr. Murdoch?" I asked.

"This boat's being launched, Miss Ismay," he stated flatly. "I'd ask you to get in now."

"No, sir," I answered immediately, glancing at my brother briefly, who had not met my gaze and must have noticed me before this. At my response, he did look up, and I was shocked by the expression I found there. He seemed relieved. But at what? That I wasn't boarding the life boat? That there was still a seat left? _No, he's your brother, your own flesh and blood._ I turned back to Mr. Murdoch, "I'm quite resigned to remaining onboard, Mr. Murdoch. But thank you."

He nodded, apathetic to my words, moved slightly to my right, scanning the deck for anyone else.

I was going to say something to Bruce, but found I had nothing to say. And my compulsion to find Thomas was returning. I began walking away.

"You made a spectacle of yourself in the chartroom." Bruce's voice stopped me short. I turned slowly, clenching my left fist at the accusation.

"What?" I asked.

"Thomas Andrews is a married man, Mary Catherine. Do you think no one notices? Well, he made it clear this time. Said it blatantly, didn't he? In front of every officer on this ship." His face contorted with disapproval, he spit out each word as if in bad taste.

"What are you talking about?" I demanded, coming forward, I stood directly in front of him now. Mr. Murdoch stepped around me, shouting to Mr. Lowe further down the deck, asking him if he had any other women and children in need of a seat on a boat. His voice sounded distant, as if Bruce and I stood in the front parlor of the house in London and Mr. Murdoch was mere street noise in the background. A vendor selling fish, a newspaper boy calling out headlines.

"You have nerve, don't you? Ready to tarnish the Ismay name beyond repair, without a thought to anyone else but yourself! How long, Mary Catherine? How long have you been his mistress?"

I slapped his face then, hard, across the jaw. He reeled back, surprised. Mr. Murdoch's attention came back to Bruce and me, stunned and more than a bit confused. The anxious passengers in Collapsible Boat C began to gawk.

"Did you order the gates closed on the lower decks?" I asked my question calmly, my voice steady and deliberate. He didn't reply but his contemptuous expression, his suddenly defensive stance answered well enough. I shook my head in repudiation, though without disbelief. No, I certainly believed my brother was capable of exactly this.

I walked away, tears burning at the corner of my eyes, threatening to fall, the result of an absurd grief that came of knowing that my brother, the only father I'd ever known, had no regard for me. I held back those tears, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing them. I wiped my eyes, turned back once, faced Bruce and Mr. Murdoch, smiled at Bruce facetiously, shrugged my shoulders, and said,

"Why don't you just ask Mr. Murdoch to give you a hand into the boat, Bruce? Instead of waiting around for your chance to jump in unnoticed?"

He blanched and I blew a satiric kiss, then turned and continued toward the aft of the ship.


	17. Chapter 17

I was running out of time. Ten minutes more and we'd all be at the bottom of the Atlantic. I raced through three floors of now lightless hallways and corridors, much better accustomed to darkness and able to navigate faster and more efficiently than I would have otherwise. Only here and there, through a port side window, would the near full moon cast any sort of light. The generators must be under water, which meant the rate of rising was accelerating. As the wrecked hull took on more water, the iron vessel became heavier, dragging the front down, down, down at an ever increasing pace. The floors slanted dramatically, I pressed my hands against the walls to keep my balance. Indeed, I was running out of time.

_Mary Catherine, are you coming?_ I had few memories of my father, scattered here and there in the recesses of my mind. A figure standing in the breezeway of the house in London, in summertime, white sleeves rolled back, laughing jovially with Stephen, the driver, about a butcher's son and a physician's daughter. A pair of strong hands lifting me high towards the ceiling. A man at the railing on a steamship bound for Africa or some other exotic place, waving down at Mother and a much younger version of myself. She held my hand firmly and pulled me away as the ship cast off its moorings. Her mouth was drawn in a firm line, somber. I should have recognized the nature of her attachment to him, even then. She never fared well when he was away. Had a tendency to ask questions twice. _Are you coming, Mary Catherine?_

But I heard my father's voice now, as if he stood in any one of the empty doorways I passed, or at the end of the hall, before me and behind me at once. Smoking a cigar, collar undone, holding a tumbler of scotch, two ice cubes cracking. His expression vague, by candlelight. But ever smiling, amused. _Well, here's a fine mess, Mary Catherine…now what can be done about it?_

"Not a thing, father," I murmured to the air.

_Oh, now that's not true, my girl. There's always something to be done, some string to be pulled, some bargain to be struck. You mind your mother now, you hear me?_

"I hear you, father." 

I would see both my mother and father directly, I thought, or else I'd see nothing at all, hear nothing, feel nothing. Either way, I was satisfied with the conclusion. At least, I would be, if only…why must I now feel so alive? Why now? I had felt nothing for so long, almost wished for death, if only to break the tedium, and save me from an incredibly ill-favored life of blindness and solitude, spent in an upper room of my brother's house in London, or wherever he might place me after my usefulness to him had ceased. I should have married, I suppose, Mr. Mayfield or Mr. Kerr or that banker, Mr. Patrick, men whose affection for my family's money, my brother's connections and my fairly attractive features would have made up for any scruples about my ill-tempered manner, my defective sight, my age and my mother's madness. But I could not…I would not. Let Bruce rant and fume, I would not be dissuaded. And so I lived a bitter, ghostly existence, as much my own making as my brother's, slept soundly (hope far too removed to cause restlessness), apathetic to waking. Some things are ruined beyond mending. And the course of Miss Mary Catherine Ismay's life was one of them.

Why then did I walk these hallways so decidedly? I should be perched on the railing, gaze heavenward, placidly welcoming the end. What difference did it make now? There was no changing anything, there was no going back.

_Dear God, I'd give anything to go back._

"Dear God…" I cried out, tears flooding my already ruined vision. Suddenly the darkness surrounding me seemed overly sinister, I imagined the water rushing down the entry way, swirling around my skirt, the dull pain as my lungs filled with ice water. I stopped, my left hand braced on the nearest door frame. I covered my face with the other hand and wept, exhausted. I slipped to the floor, onto my knees, in full moonlight, overwhelmed.

_You're not alone, Mary Catherine_. My father's voice, so sure, so certain. Such a good man of business, had the knack for knowing a good deal before it was struck. Or if nothing else, making a good deal out a miscalculation.

_You're not alone, Mary Catherine._ My mother's voice, so sweetly, so innocently naïve. Loved me even when she didn't know who I was any longer.

"I'm entirely alone," I spoke the words through clenched teeth, tears streaming down either side of my face. I inched toward madness. My mind cluttered with dangerous notions, frantic contemplations, hysterical pleas. I would die in this corridor, alone and in the dark. I closed my eyes, shaking fingers pressed against burning eyelids. _We will retain dignity_.

"You're not alone." This time the words were spoken aloud, with a soft Irish lilt. Dazed, I heard, but did not comprehend immediately. I looked up, but only wept harder, unable to see his face, convinced that his voice was merely an echo of some apparition, sent to torment me further.

"Mary Catherine…" My sight blurred and damaged beyond seeing, I reached up and caught his hands with my own as he bent down to lift me from the floor. He helped me to stand, did not release my hands until water began swirling at our feet, in droves, pouring into the corridor, uninvited. He held me near, leaning against the very door frame I'd braced myself against minutes before. I stood against his chest, eyes closed, hands resting on the forearm that encircled me, breathing in sharply as the water seeped into my black laced boots once more, frigid coldness never any less painful. I lifted my left foot against the assault, against the dull aching. Thomas held me closer, with a steady voice sang softly in my ear.

_Oh Brigit O'Malley, you left my heart shaken_

_With a hopeless desolation, I'd have you to know_

_It's the wonders of admiration your quiet face has taken_

_And your beauty will haunt me wherever I go._

With a rush of fury, white light flooded the corridor.


	18. Chapter 18

I was dry, warm and…I opened my eyes. I stood in Thomas's embrace, still in the corridor, but not as we had been. Full sunshine poured in the port side window and each window afterward, reflecting off the white walls, in delicate brightness, and I…I looked upon it, without my glasses, without throbbing on either side of my head. The light fell in rays upon the wood floor, dust particles illuminated, danced slowly through it. But the water? And the night? Thomas, astonished, not comprehending, released me, gaze darting round, finally settling on my face. I shrugged, as confused as he.

"Nice night for a morning, isn't it?" A voice came from down the corridor, past us, behind Thomas. A steward walked towards us, sharply dressed in a White Star Line uniform, grinning as if he had never learned how to frown. A man of average height and non-descript features, a young man, broom and rain jacket in hand. Thomas turned at the voice, stepped away from the door frame, in front of me, protecting me from what, neither of us could say.

"Who are you?" Thomas demanded, looking around, at the even floor boards, the dry bulkhead, the white, billowing clouds visible through the windows lining the side of the hallway. He waved a hand in the air, indiscriminately, "And where are we?"

"And what is all of this?" I muttered, reaching up, touching my face, tearless, noting again that I wore no dark glasses. And yet, not only could I see, I could see well! I touched Thomas's arm, on tiptoes peeked over his shoulder. I could see the emblem on the young man's shirt pocket, I could see the color of his eyes, the impression on a signet band he wore on the first finger of his right hand. My head no longer ached, my eyes no longer pained. I felt younger, by a dozen years, and giddy. Who cared what sort of madness this was? I whispered, with in amazement and ecstasy, "Thomas, I can see…I can see everything"

He half-turned, his expression betraying long-forgotten hope and a question in the same gaze. Did I speak earnestly? I nodded quickly, biting my lip slightly as a smile began to steal over my lips. I struggled to repress it.

"But this is impossible." Thomas turned back and faced the steward directly, stated his determination, with conviction.

"Nothing's impossible, Mr. Andrews," the steward chided pleasantly, opened a broom closet at his end of the hall, leaned his broom against the back wall, took out a wire hanger, placed the rain jacket upon it, bent over and lifted out an old suitcase, black leather, with two latches and a wooden handle. The steward looked at me, his gaze piercing, cornflower blue, wise beyond his years, familiar. "Nor is it ever too late, Miss Ismay."

"But how do you know…we were…the water and the iceberg…sir, this ship is _sinking_," Thomas sputtered, unable to form a coherent thought. The young steward shook his head, smile as yet undisturbed.

"It is a mathematical certainty, yes?" He shook his head, then sighed. "Well, I never thought much of mathematics anyway." He shut the door of the broom closet, took out a pocket watch from his pants pocket, a silver timepiece on a short chain. He noted the time, replaced the watch, "I've never like boats much either, not really a seaward sort of chap. But you, Mr. Andrews? You look like a man who couldn't live without his ships, am I right?"

Thomas, caught off balance by his own words hurled back at him, and no less confused than he had been a few moments before, struggled to answer the man's question.

"Well…I mean, I suppose…it's a living," he finished lamely, but then, almost anger, continued, "I don't see how that...."

"Oh, but it's more than a living to you, sir, isn't it? Shipbuilding is all you ever wanted to do, all you ever saw yourself doing? Like children to you, these ships you've created, aren't they?"

"But how do you…what is that to you?" Thomas would not take much more of this, he did not understand this man's line of questioning and would not stand for it, no matter how pleasantly the man asked. Clenched his right fist in frustration. I placed my hand on his arm, restrained him.

"Please, sir, just indulge me," the young steward had a firmness of voice that lent itself well to commands. And Thomas, unable to reconcile…well, anything that had transpired in the last few minutes, was left with little to counter. He answered in silence, but the young steward seemed willing to wait patiently, suitcase on the ground beside his feet, smile ever present, gaze direct, unyielding and all-knowing. Defeated by relative ignorance, Thomas complied.

"I enjoy my work, yes that's true," Thomas spoke frankly, adding, "Are you satisfied?"

"Not at all," the man answered, turned his piercing blue eyes on me, once again, but still addressing Thomas nonetheless. "Would you give it up, would you be willing to never build another thing in your life, but instead work in a field, toil under a hot sun, wrestle with insects, blight and foul weather, if it meant you could have married a young woman by the name of Mary Catherine Ismay ten years ago?"

I had met the man's gaze half-heartedly, more intent upon casting my line of vision on everything in sight, distracted by the flecks of color in the adjacent state room's painted wall and the seam on Thomas's shirt. But when my name slipped off his tongue without precursor, I brought my gaze back fast, met the young steward's unshakeable grin with a frown borne of what struck me as pure, cruel mockery. The unbridled happiness, joy I'd irrationally been adopting, dissipated as fast as it had been created. What was this place? And who was this man? And what did he want? I looked up at Thomas, to find him staring down at me with somber eyes, steady expression. I tipped my head, unsure of his scrutiny, wondering why he didn't press the man further. Surely, he…

"I'd give more than that," Thomas whispered, his words for me and me alone. I didn't trust my voice, but didn't release his arm either, couldn't tear my eyes from his face. _No soul closer to my own. _The steward began speaking again, but I barely heard him.

"Listen, folks, I've got a train to catch. Places to go, and people to see, you know?" He laughed gaily, "Ha! A train, imagine that? Remember the days of…oh no, I suppose you wouldn't."

He drifted off, and steps retreated down the hallway. Thomas declined to call out after him. I failed to notice his absence, intent upon other things.

"Thomas, I…," I hesitated, before saying words I should have said a thousand times before. I shook my head slowly, "Thomas, I don't think I…was meant to live apart from you."

_Not ever._

_Let no man put asunder…_

_Mary Catherine, are you coming?_

There was a rush of wings then, like so many pigeons alighting from the steps of a cathedral. I saw darkness, and then a myriad of colors reflected in water and then nothing at all. I heard wind chimes and someone knocked at the door.

Someone knocked at the door? The sound startled me on my way up the staircase and I almost dropped the day's post on the second floor landing…the day's post? I looked up through dark-tinted glasses. Found myself facing the grandfather clock that stood in the upstairs hallway of my brother's house in London. A quarter past ten in the morning. The pendulum swung incessantly.

"Inès!" My sister-in-law's voice carried from the back parlor, from where she instructed the girls, my nieces, Evelyn and Annette, in needlework and the virtues of discretion. They would learn her lessons well, grow into reasonable young women, cool-tempered and passionless. As their mother, as their aunt. The raven-haired chambermaid appeared from the kitchen, stone-faced, demurely walked towards the door. The letters I held, fell from my hands, scattered on the stairs after all, sealed with wax, postmarked 1903.

The French mademoiselle would not answer the knocking this day. It would be the first of several instances to be amended. Before she reached the door, Thomas Andrews opened it himself, bouquet of wildflowers held loosely in his left hand, blue phlox and aster picked from the roadside between here and Manchester.

"Oh, Thomas…," I cried and laughed at the same time, my hands upon my face, dragging the small, dark tinted glasses from my twenty-one-year-old eyes. He smiled openly, without reserve, sans melancholy, handed the flowers to Inès, absently, without a glance in her direction, met me at the foot of the staircase, where I collapsed into his arms, gladly.


	19. Epilogue

April 10, 1912

Dear Mrs. Andrews (and whichever one of her three children happens to be reading this aloud to her),

Your letter astonishes me. Perhaps in Innisfree, Ireland, delving into the affairs of other people is permissible but certainly not here, in civilization. I humbly suggest that you and your husband kindly refrain from giving advice on matters which you both have long had no experience in. An Irish sheep farmer and his blind wife can hardly claim any personal knowledge of transatlantic voyages, upper class luxury and the inherently rushed pace of modern life.

I'm boarding the ship that you referenced so dismally as soon as I post this letter. I will be in New York in five days, no more. Look for my triumph in the newspapers, if indeed you have such things in the wilds of Innisfree.

Cordially,

J. Bruce Ismay


	20. Note From Author

**NOTE FROM AUTHOR:** If this fanfiction was your cup of tea…it's been revised, expanded, flipped and folded until it became a wholly original piece. Mary Catherine is still the narrator, blindness is still impending, the Titanic is still sinking.

If you are interested in reading the piece, it is available in both print and ebook formats at Blurb Books. The title is "May It Be." Purchase here: bookstore/detail/3031779.

The book is also available in the iTunes bookstore. Due to circumstances beyond my control, the iTunes version is free and will remain so indefinitely…so if I were you, I'd download the free version. Just saying.

Thanks for reading!

-Sunshine & Lollipops


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